Suspicion of Malice (9 page)

Dub shouted, "Are you satisfied, Liz? Are you?"

"Patty, go back to bed. I'm sorry, honey. Go back
to sleep."

A minute later, Diane's footsteps went the other way, then down the stairs. The front door slammed.

Bobby quietly closed Sean's door. He used to think these people were all right. Huge house, new cars, everything clean, big refrigerator never empty. One
girl in college, another in the ballet, Sean an athlete
at Gulliver Prep—before they expelled him.

"Diane just left."

"Yeah. They're always scrapping about something. Mom says she's tired of Diane sucking money off of them. Dad just wants it quiet so he can watch TV." Sean jerked the joystick. "We could go to the Grove.
It's closer. I got the keys to Dad's Vette."

"No, man. I'm tired."

"You only live once, bro."

Bobby sat on the end of the bed, blinking a little
with fatigue. His left ankle was hurting. He'd come down wrong on it tonight, though no one had no
ticed. He'd been up too many hours, been rehearsing
too hard. When he stayed over, Sean let him sleep
in the recliner, but right now Sean was in it, still
playing his game. The light of the TV screen was on
his face. He looked like his father—chubby cheeks
and a big forehead. Sean had a ring in his ear, one in his navel, and another he wore in his eyebrow
when he went out. He kept his hair buzzed short,
except on top. Bobby used to cut his that way, but
it looked ridiculous onstage, so he'd grown it out before auditioning for the company.

He and Diane had been in the ballet school to
gether, and about five years ago, he'd met Sean. Sean
had noticed Bobby's tattoo, which was gone now.
They started hanging out. Lately Liz had made it clear that she didn't like Bobby around. Bobby
wouldn't be here now if he hadn't been afraid of
going home or to any of his friends' places on the
Beach.

"Hey, Sean." He leaned forward and tapped Sean
on the arm. "I need you to do something. Last Saturday, when Roger died, the cops want to know where
I was after I left Jack's. How about if I say I was
with you?"

After a few seconds looking at the screen, Sean said, "With me?"

"Yeah. My car was in the shop, so Angie dropped
me off at Jack's and picked me up later, about a
quarter till twelve. Nobody saw her, but if her dad
finds out we were together, she'll get in trouble.
What were you doing? Were you with anybody the cops could check out? Pay attention, Sean." Bobby's
hand shot out and ripped the joystick away. "This
is important."

"What the fuck? Give me that back."

"You going to help me or not?"

"You made me lose." Sean dropped his bare feet
to the floor and leaned over to turn off the PlaySta
tion. "Yeah, I left here about eleven and went over
to the Beach. Mom hid my fuckin' keys, so I used
my spares. You were with Angie?"

"Yeah. We went and had coffee."

"Is that all you had, bro?"

"Come on, Sean. Let's say you beeped me at eleven-forty, and I called your cell, and you said to meet you on the Beach. Far as Jack knows, I had my
car. Okay. So say we met up about twelve-thirty at
my house and we went out. Where? Where's a good
place we could've gone?"

"I don't know. Liquid. Cameo. Whatever. No, it
was Amsterdam. I used my fake ID. The bouncer
was this fat bald dude, remember? We met those
bitches from Germany. Fritzi and Mitzi. Or wds it
Helga and Olga?"

"Don't try to be funny, okay? If they ask."

"I got your back, man. We were at Amsterdam.
What time did we stay till?"

"Like, a quarter to three, 'cause I got home at three o'clock. You got all that? Sean?"

"Yeah, bro. I beeped you at eleven-forty, we
hooked up at twelve-thirty, went to the club, and left at a quarter to three. By the way—Sonic Boom was playing that night, then they went to disco. We got
bored and split. It was mad crowded. And I really did go by there. Are we straight now?"

"Fine. Just keep Angie's name out of it." Bobby
dropped back down on the end of the bed. "Hey,
Sean. I have to see a lawyer in the morning. Do you
have any cash? I can pay you back next week."

"How much you need?"

"I don't know. Three hundred. Have you got it?"

"No problem." Sean stood up and moved some books around on a shelf over his desk. He turned around with some hundred-dollar bills and fanned
them out. Bobby counted eight or nine. Sean said,
"Take what you need."

"Whoa. Where'd you get all them benjamins?"

"My dad." Sean sounded bored. "I've got some mutual funds I can't have till I'm twenty-one, but he
let me sell some. My mother doesn't know, so I keep
it out of sight."

"Oh, yeah? You didn't jack it out of his wallet,
did you?"

"No." Sean shoved three bills at Bobby. "Don't be
stupid, take it. Just pay me back, yo." He put the
rest of it behind the books.

"I'll get it back to you next week." He stuck the bills in his hip pocket.

Sean was doing his little smile—sleepy eyes, one side of his mouth going up. "The cops are after you
for Roger?"

Bobby shrugged. "They want to talk to me."

"You could've done it. You hated him."

"So did you. Wasn't for Roger, you wouldn't be doing algebra like back in high school."

"So? He called you a faggot, man."

"And I busted his face for him." Bobby flicked a
punch on Sean's shoulder.

Laughing, Sean aimed one back, which Bobby de
flected. "You the one who shot him, man?"

"What?"

"Did you cap him, bro?"

"Did I cap him?
Bro?
Look at you, rich white boy,
talking street." Bobby clenched a fistful of Sean's
polo shirt and shoved it into his stomach. "Homeboy from Gables Estates. Look at that computer, the TV and shit. You busted up two cars, your old man lets you drive his fuckin' Corvette, and you so hard. You
go to my street, they'd crack up laughing."

Sean went after him jabbing, kidding around.
Bobby swerved away. Sean was big, but Bobby was fast. Sean came across the room laughing.

Bobby held his hands up. "Shut up, Sean, your
folks are gonna hear. Listen, you know if Jack has
any friends named Alan? He's got thick gray hair
and round glasses? Taller than me, kind of skinny.
You ever see anybody like that over at Jack's?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Well, he was at Jack's party, and the cops say he
doesn't exist. They asked me where I was, right? This
one cop goes, 'Can you account for your where
abouts during the entire course of the party?' And I
said, 'Sure, I was inside the house washing glasses
and tying up the garbage mostly, or out on the porch. Ask anybody.' And he goes, 'You never went out in
the backyard at all?' "

Grabbing his toes, Bobby arched his foot then stretched it the other way, testing the pain. "I wasn't trying to play with these guys, but you gotta be care
ful. One of Jack's friends he goes fishing with slipped
me a joint, so about eleven o'clock I took a break and
went down to the water. I told the detective, 'Yeah,
I was sitting on the seawall with this guy named
Alan from about eleven to eleven-forty.' The detec
tive was like, 'How do you know the time so pre
cisely, Mr. Gonzalez?' And I go, 'I just remember, okay?' Well, I remember because Angela beeped me at exactly eleven-forty, but I can't tell him that. Then
he asks me what was Alan's last name, and I said I
didn't know the last name. Just Alan. I described him, and then the cop says there was nobody like
that at the party, nobody named Alan. Then he asked if I still had the clothes I wore that night, and could
they have them. He goes, 'It's routine so we can get
this matter cleared up.' "

Sean had turned his desk chair around to sit facing
Bobby. "Did they take your clothes?"

"No, man, they didn't have a warrant, they
couldn't do shit. I said, 'Look, you better leave, I'm
late to rehearsal already.' The main detective gave
me his card and told me to call. I didn't, so yesterday they were waiting for me outside the studio. He goes,
'Mr. Gonzalez, don't you want to help solve this
crime and ease the suffering of Roger Cresswell's
family?' It was so funny, man, the way he said it, I
had to laugh. Then the other guy gets in my face.
He goes, 'You're lying to us, and I don't like that.' And I go, 'Well, I don't like your bad breath, dude.'
The older guy pulls him off of me and says, 'We'll
be seeing you.'"

"Did they get a warrant?"

"Maybe. They might be there right now, ran
sacking the apartment. My roommates will be
pissed off."

Sean gave Bobby's shoulder a punch. "You were
with me, bro. We can say I beeped you at eleven, and you left then."

"No, they don't like it when you change your
story. Besides, I went back in the house and told Jack I was leaving. I'll ask the lawyer what to do." Bobby put his elbows on his knees and dug his fingers into his hair. "Alan. He was there, bro. I saw him. Jack
fuckin'
knows
him, and when I called, he goes, 'Sorry,
man, I can't talk about the case.'"

They heard the knock on the door and froze. Sean exhaled. "Shit."

"Sean? Sean, let me in."

"I'm studying, Mother."

"Who's in there with you?"

"No one. I have the TV on. Is it disturbing you?"

The doorknob rattled. "Open this door. Now."

"Go in the bathroom," Sean whispered.

"No. Open it." Bobby started putting his sneakers
back on.

Under his breath Sean said, "Bitch." He flipped
open his math book and picked up a pen. Twiddling it in his fingers, he opened the door a few inches.
"Yes?"

His mother pushed him out of the way and came
in, looking around. Her dark brown hair swung at
her shoulders. Elizabeth Cresswell was one of those older women who looked good in makeup, but most
of it had worn off. It was smudged under her eyes.

She smiled at him. "Bobby, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Sean said, "Why does he have to leave?"

"Because it's late, and I said so."

"He doesn't have to leave. I told him he could stay
the night."

"Sean, dear. Whose house is this? And please put
your father's car keys back where you found them."

"I don't have his fuckin' keys. Ask him, or is he too drunk to remember what he did with them?"

His mother crossed her arms. "Now, what was it
your probation officer said about cursing? Remind me."

Bobby swung his backpack over his shoulder. "Let
it go, Sean. I'll catch you tomorrow."

"Later, bro."

They did the hand slap as Bobby walked past.
"Later."

Elizabeth escorted him down the curving stairs,
through the living room, then into the foyer. She
opened one side of the double doors. The neighborhood was quiet, only the crickets and the splash of water in a fountain in the driveway. A line of lamps
led out to the front gate. His own car was parked around the corner.

"Good night, Mrs. Cresswell." He trotted down
the wide steps.

"Bobby."

Letting out a breath, he stopped and turned
around.

She was standing in the light of the doorway, a hand on her hip. Gold bracelets dangled from her
wrist. She had a nice body for her age, and she knew
it. "Stay away from my son. I don't care how good
you look in tights, you're still a worthless little punk.
If I see you around here again, I will have you ar
rested for trespassing. Are we perfectly clear on
that?"

He wanted to slap her, the bitch. He would have—
back in the day. He smiled, ran up onto the porch
and skidded on his knees, arms extended. "I'm
gonna miss you, mama!"